


Out of the Shadows

by rahleeyah



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22670227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahleeyah/pseuds/rahleeyah
Summary: Sequel to I'll Follow You (Into the Dark). When Patrick and Shelagh return to Poplar, their courtship begins in earnest. The road ahead will be full of twists and turns, as they struggle to forge a new life together.
Relationships: Bernadette | Shelagh Turner/Patrick Turner
Comments: 18
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

_9 July 1958_

Silence was an old friend to Shelagh Mannion. She had first understood the meaning of silence and the damage it could do when she was six years old, and her mother died. Silence fell on her home that day; before it had always been full of laughter and singing, her mother's gentle voice weaving in and through the air that surrounded Shelagh's childhood, casting a spell of comfort and serenity over her. In the absence of that voice silence festered, and the old protective incantations left her; it was the first time she had known grief, and it would not be the last.

Silence had followed her, after that. The silence of her father, who had been a good man, who loved her, but did not know how to speak to a child, how to counsel a girl who was lost without her mother, who nursed his own broken heart without ever speaking of his pain. Then he, too, had died, and her world had grown quieter still. There had been moments of cacophony next, in London, but the war was not without its own silences; the breath held tight while the wireless relayed news from the front, the ghostly stillness after the last bomb had fallen and fear lingered. Then came the silent corridors of the London late in the evenings, the silence of her little room in the Nurse's Home when her fellows were all sleeping peacefully and she was left awake and full of questions. The silence of the Order, after, had been an altogether different sort of silence; it was a holy silence, buzzing with the ethereal blessing of the Almighty. The silence of the Mother House had been a comfort.

And there had been silence in Poplar, though it was different to anything else she had ever known before. The silence between the words she shared with Doctor Turner, long pauses fraught with meaning and longing looks that lingered in the stillness. She had thought, before now, that she knew what that silence held. She had thought, before now, that she could almost guess what he was thinking, that it was love that bloomed in the cracks of that silence. It had to have been love that led him to kiss her hand, to write to her so passionately, to abandon his surgery and come flying to Chichester to retrieve her, love that made him kiss her as she had not ever really been kissed before. It had to have been love, she thought, but though that love had been given voice at last silence had come for her once again.

Silence had fallen in the car, as they drove through the gathering dark. Young Timothy had been full of questions, at first, wanting to know whether she'd received his butterfly, whether she had any diagnosis to give. He wanted to know what he ought to call her now - they had settled on _Auntie Shelagh,_ the three of them together. _Auntie_ was a not uncommon term of endearment in their corner of the world, often used for women who bore no blood relation to the children who spoke it, and though it seemed a bit strange to hear her given name in the mouth of a child she supposed she would adjust to it, in time. The last question he had asked before drifting into sleep in the warmth and comfort of the car's big back seat was _when are you going to come live with us?_

Patrick had taken it upon himself to answer that one; _Auntie Shelagh and I will have to discuss it,_ he'd said. But then Tim had dozed off, and silence had returned, and now Shelagh could not fathom how to break it, though she dearly longed to.

When _would_ she be moving in with them? Were they properly engaged, now, or was there more a ceremonious proposal to come? Would Patrick fancy a long proposal and a perfectly planned wedding, or would he rather take her home, take her to bed, as soon as he was able? If they wed too soon, wouldn't people talk? But, oh, if they waited too long Shelagh had no idea what she'd do with herself. Trixie had helped to arrange a room for her, but Sister Julienne had made it clear that once she married - if she married - she would no longer be a midwife. She would be, as Chummy had been, cast adrift. Oh, Chummy had returned to them in times of strife and found her own calling in the mother and baby home, but it had not ever been the same, after.

 _Nothing's ever going to be the same again,_ Shelagh thought, twisting her hands together in her lap as anxiety began to swell beneath the pressure of that silence. No more Nonnatus House, no more lauds, no more compline, no more late night callouts for deliveries, no more Horlicks with the nurses, no more habit, no more _Sister Bernadette. But who I am,_ she wondered, _if I am not her?_

"You're thinking very loudly," Patrick said softly from the seat beside her. And then, quite to her surprise, he reached out and covered her busy hands with his own. His one hand engulfed both of hers, his palm warm but scratchy and hard from years of hot water and Dettol. _Oh,_ how she loved that hand; his hands were the first piece of him she had ever encountered, the day they met and those hands settled warm and heavy on her hips, and those hands had featured prominently in her dreams of him. Those hands were comfort, and security, his touch a quiet reminder of the promises he had made to her. Promises not to abandon her, promises to love her, to provide for her, to give her a _home._ She had not known, before he touched her, what she ought to say to him, or even if she had the courage to speak at all, but the answer lay within the folded nest of their hands. Yes, her entire life was about to change, was changing already. Yes, she did not know the way ahead, hardly even knew where to begin. But for the first time in her entire life, she knew she did not have to find the answers to those questions alone. Whatever happened next, they would face it together.

"I'm just a bit...confused," she answered slowly. "Oh, Patrick, there's so much to do, and I hardly know where to begin."

"First things first, I suppose," he said. "You told me Trixie has arranged lodgings for you. Are you...I don't mean to pry, but...well, how are you set for money? It's not as if you've been earning a wage, these last few years. I don't want you to find yourself in strife."

"I have a little," she told him. In fact she had precisely 100 pounds. Enough to see her through for a few months, and while it had seemed a fortune when Mother Jesu first handed it to her now she began to whether it would stretch so far as she'd hoped. While it was not a pressing need she rather thought she ought to buy some clothes; three outfits seemed an extravagance compared to the single habit she'd worn for the last ten years, but her garments were terribly out of date, and she did not want to embarrass Patrick, should they be seen out together. There was food and lodging to pay for, and if the engagement stretched out for a year or more, her hundred pounds would not sustain her. What then should she do? Perhaps Patrick was asking because he wanted to offer his aid, to do what he could to ensure that his fiance was not kept in poverty, but the last thing she wanted was to ask him for money. _I could go to Sister Julienne,_ she thought then. _I don't know what I'll do with myself, if I'm not working, and surely they'll need some assistance without me there._

"A little," Patrick mused softly. "I have a suggestion, if you're open to it."

"Of course I am, Patrick," she answered at once. It seemed she could hardly speak a sentence without saying his name, but she so loved to hear it, loved to know that she was allowed this intimacy, now, that the barriers which had for so long separated them were being torn down. He was _Patrick,_ now, not _Doctor,_ and just saying his name filled her heart with joy.

"I was going to ask you, after we wed, if you'd like to start work as my receptionist in the surgery. I've not had one for over a year now and...well, record keeping has never been my strong suit. The job comes with a salary, if you're interested, and it might help you to keep busy. Stop you from fretting." As if to smooth any ruffled feathers that last observation might have left he lifted one of her hands to his lips, and kissed her palm gently. And then he laced their fingers together, and brought their joined hands to rest against his thigh, and Shelagh's heart began to race. What a dear man he was! He had known, without her saying so, that idleness would drive her to distraction, and he had just neatly provided her with an opportunity not only to keep herself occupied but to spend more time with him. And in the joining of their hands Shelagh felt as if she could sense their lives joining together, too, everything slotting into place exactly as it was meant to.

"I think that's a wonderful idea, Patrick," she answered earnestly. A smile bloomed across his face as she answered, and in that smile she saw relief, and joy, and reason to hope.

"Good," he said. "That's that settled. Now, the next pressing matter - will you join us for dinner?"

Shelagh's first impulse was to say _yes, please._ To sit in their little flat with Patrick and Timothy, or perhaps at a cozy table in some cafe, to eat a warm meal and catch a glimpse of what their life together might be like seemed to her the best possible ending to what had so far been the most monumental day of her life. And yet she hesitated; it would be dark by the time they reached Poplar. Though she did not doubt that Timothy's presence would temper any sort of affection between herself and Patrick and keep their interactions on the right side of the line of propriety, the meal would eventually end, and she would need to go in search of her lodgings. She wasn't expected until the following day, and she was not certain her room would be ready. And even if it was, what would the landlady think should she turn up unannounced late in the evening, with a gentleman beside her and no ring upon her finger? It hardly seemed an auspicious beginning. But she could not stay the night in Patrick's flat, either; he only had the two bedrooms, Patrick in one and Timothy in the other, and no proper place for her to sleep. And if anyone saw her walking out of the flat in the early morning sunlight, tongues would wag.

"I think perhaps it's best if I don't," she said finally. Patrick's face fell as she spoke, and she understood it, for she regretted the decision she had made, however logical it might have been. "I think perhaps I'd like to go to Nonnatus House, if that's all right with you. I need to speak with the Sisters, and I can move into my new room tomorrow."

"If you think that's best." He was not pouting, exactly, but there was a defeated slump to his shoulders she liked not one bit. How changeable he could be, this man she loved; his every emotion played out upon his face, and he swung from one to the other so quickly it sometimes left her feeling a bit dizzy. But that was one of the things she liked about him best, for he did not ever hide himself from her. His every word was genuine, and each time she looked into his eyes she saw how deeply he cared for her. 

"Oh, Patrick," she sighed, giving his hand a little squeeze. "I do want to go with you. I don't ever want to leave you. But there's going to be a lot of talk, when people find out what's happened. They're going to say all sorts of things. Your reputation might suffer, and I won't do anything to make things more difficult for you. We're going to have to do things properly."

"I suppose that's true," he said, a bit ruefully. "But it isn't my reputation I'm worried about. It's yours. You're right to be concerned about what people might say, and I'm afraid they might treat you rather more harshly than they do me."

Shelagh rather thought he was right. That always seemed to be the way of it, that men could do whatever they fancied, take their pleasure wherever they wished, and be afforded a certain grace, their misdeeds dismissed with a wry smile and a joke about how he was _quite a ladies' man._ It went rather differently, for women. There was nothing she could do to change it now, she thought; _what's done is done. Let them say what they like._

"Let them say what they like," she said aloud. "You and I will know the truth, and that's what matters. But I do want us to be careful, Patrick."

"I promise," he said, kissing her hand again, as if he drew as much strength and comfort from that connection as she did herself. "I will always be careful with you."

Shelagh smiled and leaned back against the seat, her hand still held tight in his own. Though evening had fallen all around them the little car was racing into the heart of Poplar, and the street lights and twinkling lamps from the surrounding homes and businesses banished the darkness, and sparkled on her face like stars. _We've made a start,_ she thought. And it was, she thought, a very fine start indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

_9 July 1958_

It was a strange and uncomfortable feeling, approaching Nonnatus House as a guest, a stranger, having to knock and wait for someone to come and open the door for her instead of walking right in as she would have done when this place was her home. Patrick was still sitting behind the wheel of his car, watching from the street; he'd promised not to drive off until he saw that she was safely inside. He'd wanted to stand with her on the doorstep, but darkness had fallen already, and Timothy was asleep in the backseat of the car, and there was a part of her that did not want Patrick beside her when this door opened, when her friends, her colleagues, looked upon her with her head uncovered for the first time in their acquaintance. There would be questions and giggles from the nurses, she was sure, and sorrowful glances from the nuns, and Patrick's presence at her side would feel somehow wrong, she thought, as if she were flaunting the decision she'd made, the way she'd thrown over one family for another. No, she'd decided, it was altogether best that Patrick stay where he was.

For several long seconds she stood there, forlorn and alone on the stoop of the building that had once been her home, both her hands wrapped around the handle of her worn travelling case. If she'd had a hand free she would have run it self-consciously over her hair; it felt somehow indecent, stepping out into the world dressed this way. Her suit would have been frumpy by Trixie's standards, but it showed the slope of her calf, the curve of her neck, hugged the neat tuck of her waist and left her figure on full display. And her face, oh her face was not hidden beneath the wimple any longer. Anyone who looked upon her now would see her, all of her, without artifice or defense.

Shelagh stood still just long enough to begin to wonder whether anyone had heard her hesitant knock at all when the door opened at last. There on the other side stood Trixie, still wearing her uniform, and as Shelagh watched the girl's eyes went almost comically wide.

"Oh, Sister," Trixie breathed, her gaze travelling over Shelagh from head to toe and back again - not that such a journey took very long. Strange, but as Shelagh watched her she could not help but notice that tears seemed to have gathered in the corners of Trixie's eyes, though she could not say whether that was for good or ill.

"Oh, but that isn't right, is it?" Trixie said then, a bright, brilliant smile blooming across her face despite those sparkling tears. "You aren't a Sister at all."

"No, I'm afraid I'm not," Shelagh told her.

"Don't be afraid," Trixie said, reaching for her case with one hand while holding the door open with another. "I want you to be happy." The door had been opened and so Shelagh stepped through it, though she cast a glance back over her shoulder, looking out at the dark green MG where Patrick sat keeping watch over her. It would not be the last time she saw him, she knew; they would meet again the following day, and begin to build their new life together, but still she was hesitant to leave him, wanting, if only for a moment, to rush back down the stairs and into the comfort and security of his warm embrace.

"Is that Doctor Turner out there?" Trixie asked, but she did not wait for the answer for she knew it already; she gave a jaunty wave and then closed the door, and Shelagh took a very deep breath as she found herself wrapped up in the familiar warmth of Nonnatus House once more.

"Doctor drove me here from Chichester," Shelagh explained, blushing. She had very nearly referred to him as _Patrick,_ but such familiarity seemed out of place within these walls. It would not do, she thought, to call him _Patrick_ when she spoke of him to the nurses. She had not known his name while they were working together, and she felt it was important to respect the necessary boundaries between the GP and the midwives, even if she had spent the last year and more skirting round them at every opportunity.

"I'm so happy for you, Shelagh," Trixie said, stowing her case by the door and then catching Shelagh by the arm. "Now, let's get you something to eat."

It had been necessary for Shelagh to give the girl her full name while Trixie assisted in securing her new home, and it was right that Trixe should use it now, but it still felt strange, somehow, to hear her given name spoken aloud. It felt rather like slipping into a blouse that was much too big for her, like she was a child playing dress-up in another person's clothes. _Perhaps I'll grow accustomed to it in time,_ she thought as Trixie led her down the corridor to the kitchen. She supposed she did not have another choice, for she was _Shelagh,_ now, and no going back.

"Now," Trixie said, pushing her towards a chair, "you sit there, and tell me everything."

There was something so wonderfully, beautifully enthusiastic about the way Trixie had welcomed her, the way Trixie seemed to share in her own happiness, though Trixie was eager where Shelagh was guarded. It would be lovely, she thought, to have a proper friend, someone she could talk to earnestly about all her hope and all her fears. Of all the girls it was Trixie who knew the most about her situation and how it had come to be; it was Trixie who had lingered on the periphery of so many of the important moments that had led Shelagh out of the Order and into Patrick's arms. It was Trixie who had heard her tearful confession, the night before she was sent away, Trixie who had said _it's so plain that he cares for you, and Tim clearly adores you, and if you love them both then I say...well, I say it's wonderful._ It _was_ wonderful, Shelagh knew that now, knew that it was love she felt for Patrick and his boy, knew that it was love Patrick felt for her, knew that it was love that must guide her steps into the unknown, but she had not known that it was wonderful, before. Until she'd unburdened herself to Trixie she had not really believed that this love could be a blessing, but Trixie had given her cause to hope, and for that she would always be grateful.

"There's not much to tell that you don't already know," Shelagh told her gently. "Doctor and I still have a great many things to discuss."

Trixie had been busy from the moment they'd entered the kitchen, pulling together pieces leftover from the Nonnatuns' supper so that Shelagh might eat, and as Shelagh spoke Trixie turned and placed a heaping plate in front of her.

"But you are going to marry him, aren't you?" Trixie's eyes were sparkling with joy as she asked her question, and Shelagh could not help but smile in response.

"Yes," she said. _Yes,_ she and Patrick were going to marry; she was going to live in that little flat with him, and fall asleep beside him every night, and everything else, every other question, every other answer she had not found yet ceased to matter, if only for a moment.

Trixie squealed, then, and hugged her exuberantly before settling into the chair beside her.

"You must tell me exactly how he proposed," she said, "and you must let us throw an engagement party for you."

"Nurse Franklin, have you seen-"

The sound of Sister Julienne's voice cut neatly across Trixie's gleeful chatter, but she did not finish her thought; she came floating into the kitchen, graceful as always, but drew up short at the sight of Shelagh at the table. Out of reflex Shelagh rose to her feet, tugging anxiously at the hem of her jacket, a sudden sorrow washing away every ounce of happiness Trixie's company had brought to her. This was what she had feared most about returning to Nonnatus House, this moment when she must see Sister Julienne again, and see for herself how much grief her decision had caused.

For a moment Sister Julienne simply stood looking at her, and then her eyes, too, began to fill with tears, though Shelagh imagined it was for a different reason than Trixie's had done. Trixie was a hopelessly romantic sort of girl; she swooned over the slightest gesture of affection and spent rather a lot of time dissecting every interaction she and her friends had with an available man. Trixie read romance novels, and went to the cinema, and dreamed of the kind of love that would sweep her off her feet. Sister Julienne's nature could not have been more different.

"Oh, my dear Sister - Shelagh," she corrected herself at once, giving her head a little shake as if to clear away a troublesome thought. "It is so lovely to see you. But I'm afraid I wasn't expecting you."

"I wasn't expecting to be here, Sister Julienne," Shelagh answered meekly. "My new lodgings won't be ready until tomorrow. I wanted to ask if I might be allowed to stay the night here."

"Of course," Sister Julienne said, and though her voice was warm her eyes were terribly sad, and that sorrow cut Shelagh to the quick. _I have hurt her,_ she realized. _I have turned my back on the Order, and on her. Oh, what must she think of me?_ Sister Julienne lived and breathed only to serve others, possessed a serenity and a certainty about her calling that Shelagh had often envied. Julienne was so wholly devoted to the service of the Lord that Shelagh could not help but feel that in rejecting one, she had also rejected the other. They had always been so close, the two of them; there had been moments when Shelagh felt she loved that woman as a girl ought to love her mother, but she had left her mother's house, now, and spurned everything her mother had ever taught her.

"You are always welcome here, my dear," Julienne continued. "We would be happy to see you, whenever you have the chance. You can sleep in your old room."

That thought was not a welcome one, but Shelagh felt she had been given a gift, and she would not ask for more.

"Thank you," she breathed, trying very hard not to cry. She wanted to hug Sister Julienne, to cling to her, to explain how deeply she loved Patrick, how loving him did not mean she could not also love the women who had been her sisters, but the words wouldn't come, and in any case Sister Julienne was already speaking again.

"It's time for compline," she said. "Will you join us, Shelagh? We have so missed hearing your voice."

"Oh, I couldn't," Shelagh answered, twisting her hands together. _Oh,_ but this was torture. After all the long weeks she'd spent in the Mother House, the endless praying, the endless tears, Patrick's desperate arrival and his beautiful letters, she had thought she was confident in her choice. It was the right decision, she knew it was, but standing here, looking at Sister Julienne, knowing all she had given up, knowing how she must have wounded the ones she loved, how they must worry for her, guilt and despair settled low in her belly. How could she possibly walk into the chapel dressed this way? How could she raise her voice in praise to the Lord, when she had turned away from him in pursuit of the desires of her own selfish heart?

"No," Sister Julienne said softly. "I suppose not. Still, you're welcome any time."

The offer was a genuine one, made in good faith, a hand outstretched, a reminder that it was not too late for Shelagh to seek the Lord's mercy and the love of her sisters even if she would never again be one of them. But it was not a hand she could take, not a gift she could accept; she wasn't certain she deserved it.

"I must go," Sister Julienne said then, and made to turn away.

"Wait," Trixie called out to her, still sitting at the table where she had silently observed the interaction between Shelagh and her former sister, "did you need something?"

"It can wait," Sister Julienne said with one of her saintly smiles. "Have a nice evening."

And then she departed, and Shelagh promptly burst into tears.


	3. Chapter 3

_9 July 1958_

_I'm glad Auntie Shelagh came home,_ those were the last words Tim spoke as he nestled beneath his blankets and fell into the easy slumber of a child without a care in the world. And those were the words that ricocheted through Patrick's mind now as he lay in his own bed, eyes open and staring blankly at the ceiling, sleep a long way off for him yet. She had come home, come back to him, that dear girl with her bright eyes and her brilliant smile, and Patrick was glad, too, of course he was glad. Her gentle assurance - _I couldn't be more certain -_ had restored his happiness, given him cause to hope, given wings to all his wildest dreams. She was _certain,_ as he was _certain, certain_ that this path they had chosen was the right one, that they could be good for each other, that the life they might forge together would be more wonderful than any they could make apart.

And yet, for all his happiness, some sense of trepidation lingered. It was not doubt; he did not doubt that he loved that girl, did not doubt that he would do everything in his power to make her happy, to make their life together beautiful for them both. What he felt now more closely resembled fear, or perhaps guilt, or perhaps both. He was afraid, truth be told, of how their friends and neighbors might respond to the news that she was no longer a nun. At her insistence he had taken her to Nonnatus House to spend the night, and Nurse Franklin's jaunty wave had been friendly enough, but would the nuns be so welcoming? How would they treat a woman who had once been one of their own, and left them for the sake of a man? Would they scorn her, would a night spent beneath their roof be an unpleasant one? Or would a more subtle and therefore more sinister sort of rift spring up between them, as they drew a line between their love of _Bernadette_ and their new friendship with _Shelagh?_ And oh, Christ, but their neighbors were a contentious lot much prone to gossip and delighting in schadenfreude; would the gleeful old biddies of Poplar make much of Shelagh's fall from grace, and in the process make her life difficult?

It was not only the vow of chastity which Shelagh found difficult to maintain, Patrick knew that now. He knew how her heart longed for freedom beyond the strictures of the Order, but there were so few people who were privy to the inner workings of her mind, and he knew they would all fixate themselves at once upon that one particular aspect of her new life with glee. They had known her from the start as a nun, a woman purified and blessed, set aside by God, for God, and now he meant to sully her with his own two hands, and now…

Now she would be sullied indeed, by his connection to her. It was the most salacious thing to happen in Poplar in recent memory, he was sure, his having seduced a nun away from the Order. It would be all anyone could talk about. And beneath his fear of public retribution and how Shelagh might hold up in the face of it another, more insidious worry lingered. She was so _young,_ too young for a tired old man like him, and she'd spent the last decade in a convent. Though she had taken it upon herself to kiss him, and though he counted that a positive indicator of her intentions indeed, the truth was her kiss had been hesitant, and brief. They had not discussed it, her history, what she knew of the things men and women got up together under cover of darkness, and he did not know...well, he did not know what _she_ knew. There had been a letter, written to her in his desperation, in which he spoke as plainly as he dared of his own desires, but he did not know what her thoughts were on the subject. Would she be frightened of him? Could he woo her as gently as he wished, or would his own eager passions overwhelm her utterly? What would it be like, the first time he took her to bed? The thought of her trembling from fear rather than desire left a bitter taste in his mouth. Patrick adored her, with everything he had, and he would not have her fear him, but how could she feel otherwise, when she had not ever allowed a man to know her so intimately?

Lack of experience was certainly not an issue for Patrick himself, but therein lay the source of the guilt that swirled in and through him. She was a bright and beautiful girl who had chosen her own path in life, and Patrick had pulled her away from that life, pulled her away from the faith that had sustained her for so long for the sake of his own selfish heart. And he had done this thing, invited her into his home, into his bed, less than two years after Marianne had died.

 _Oh, my love,_ he thought as his mind drifted toward Marianne, and his first marriage, the marriage he had thought would be his only, until Shelagh burst into his life. _I wish that I could speak to you, if only for a moment. I wish that I could hear you say you don't hate me for what I'm about to do. What I've done already._

He'd told Shelagh once that he rather thought Marianne would have liked her, and that was true enough. Marianne would have found her delightful, a curiosity to be exclaimed over; she would have tried so hard to make Shelagh laugh, would have jumped at the chance to take her shopping for new clothes now that Shelagh was no longer a nun. The pair might have been friends, if they'd been given the chance; no doubt Marianne's somewhat lackadaisical approach to life would have rubbed up against Shelagh's more strictly organized nature at times, but there was balance in such a difference of personalities. They might have been friends, but would Marianne have approved of Patrick taking such a woman as his wife? Would she have approved of anyone at all, or preferred he remain faithful to her memory forever? Was it too soon? How long should he have waited, between the death of one wife and the making of a new one? There was no road map for this, no one to guide him. Though he was friendly enough with his neighbors he did not count any of them as confidants, and he could not come to any of them with the questions that had been laid before his feet. He was left only in this purgatory of nerves, twisting this way and that. He _wanted_ Shelagh, and he held hope for their future, but was his certainty born of true understanding, or only his desperate desire to have that which he had craved for so long?

 _I'll find no answers like this,_ he told himself firmly. The best thing for him now would be to sleep; it was a Wednesday, and he had the surgery in the morning and rounds in the afternoon. They had decided between themselves that Shelagh would come to the surgery first thing in the morning, ostensibly so they could discuss her position as his receptionist but in truth because they did not want to be away from one another for very long. _Things will look better in the morning,_ he told himself, _once I've had a chance to speak to her again. This worry will keep for another night._

* * *

It was very strange, being back in her little room at Nonnatus House. The air was still and quiet - and smelled faintly of mold - and no one stirred in that place. Not so very much time had passed since this room had been her home, since she had felt comfortable and at peace here, but it seemed terribly strange to her now, and sleep would not come. The room was cold and bare and lifeless, somehow, a room designed to house a _Sister,_ and not a woman who pursued her own goals independent of the Order. She had tried to kneel at her bedside, tried to whisper a prayer, but the words had vanished from her mind, her thoughts too distracted to form even a single line of praise or entreaty. All she could think of, all she could see when she closed her eyes, was the sorrowful expression on Sister Julienne's face as she'd turned to leave.

It wasn't fair, Shelagh thought, that a day which had begun with such happiness could have ended in misery. She _wanted_ to be glad, wanted to be delighted and full of hope, and she had been when she was alone with Trixie. She had felt, in those few precious moments, as if she were just any other girl, talking excitedly with a friend about her new engagement. It was such a lovely, normal sort of feeling, and she had luxuriated in it, but then Sister Julienne had appeared, and reminded her without words that she wasn't just any other girl. She was past thirty years old now, and a...what was the word, she wondered, for a woman who had been a nun and now was no longer? There had been others before her, she was hardly the first. The Order had an entire procedure set out for the renunciation of vows. There was at least one other who had been a postulant with her and later chose to step away, but Shelagh did not know what had become of Sister Abigail. It was as if the woman had vanished, all ties between them severed, never to be mended. That was not the sort of ending Shelagh wanted for her relationships with her Sisters; she would still see them often, of that she was certain, passing in the streets or in the maternity home, and she wanted their acquaintance to remain warm, and friendly, and full of love. But how could she show that love, when she had so blatantly chosen to betray them?

She wanted to believe that it was worth it, the way she had traded one family for another. When things settled, when her mind was less chaotic, she was certain she could still pray, and attend church each week, could maintain a quiet devotion to the God she still believed in, the God she believed had placed Patrick in her path for just this purpose. Surely God would not love her any less, for having made this choice. But what about her Sisters? Would they love her still, as they always had done? What would become of her, without them? Would Patrick's love be enough to fill the void they left behind?

She wanted to believe that it would. She wanted to believe that she was simply doing as so many others had done before her since time immemorial, walking away from her mother's house and to her husband's with her head held high. That he should become her confidant, that their family should be her new love, seemed a natural thing. _But does it always hurt so much?_ She wondered. _Do other women feel the same, when they leave their families behind? Or must every happiness be purchased with some degree of grief?_

There was no way to know, and no one for her to ask. Well, Chummy, perhaps. Chummy had left behind Nonnatus House - though she had returned, now, however briefly - for the sake of her husband, and was now expecting a baby any day. _Maybe I should go to her, and ask,_ Shelagh thought. Chummy and Peter were after all just down the hall, sleeping peacefully as all the rest of Nonnatus was. Maybe, come the morning, she might find time to ask Chummy for a chat. Oh, but Chummy was still working, and Shelagh had arranged to meet Patrick in the surgery after breakfast; _in the afternoon, perhaps,_ she thought, _or I could come by before dinner._

Perhaps it would do her good, she thought, to discuss such matters with a friend. Though Chummy had never been a nun she had been rather inexperienced in the realm of romance before she'd met Peter, and perhaps there might be some advice she could give on the matter that would soothe Shelagh's heart.

 _And as for the rest,_ she thought, _we shall have to face each challenge as it comes._


	4. Chapter 4

_10 July 1958_

_I shall have to buy her a ring,_ Patrick mused to himself while he shaved, half-dressed and half-asleep in the wan light of an early Thursday morning. He had woken with his head full of questions, the thousand tiny details that would need to be sorted through before he and Shelagh could wed roaring through his mind. The most immediate concerns - her living arrangements and ability to sustain herself during their engagement - had been neatly taken care of, and now his thoughts turned to other, messier problems. Chief among them being that he had not technically proposed. Oh, he had offered to do so, had told Shelagh in his letters that he wanted her to be his wife, but he had not technically _asked_ , and his own somewhat limited experience had taught him that most women liked to observe the niceties. She deserved that, he thought, a proper proposal she could tell all her friends about - what few of them there were - and a ring that she could wear proudly, a ring that would announce to anyone who crossed her path that she was loved, and spoken for.

Oh, she would not want something ostentatious, he knew. They had agreed among themselves that she would come work at the surgery with him, and her hands were never idle. The ring he chose would need to be sturdy, something she could wear while she worked, something she would not have to fuss over. But he did not want it to be _too_ small, too understated, for as far as he knew she had no jewelry at all, and he rather thought she deserved to have something beautiful, just for herself. It would take a very particular sort of ring, he thought, to satisfy all of the necessary requirements, but he did not want to debate the issue overlong; he wanted to propose to her as soon as he was able, that very day if he could only find the time to duck into a shop.

The morning was wearing quickly on, however; the moment his shave was done he was out of the bathroom, shrugging into the last of his clothes and shouting for Tim. They wolfed down a bite of toast together, and then came the usual scramble as he searched for his hat and his bag and Tim shuffled about underfoot, full of questions about Auntie Shelagh and the wedding.

"I'll ask her to dinner tonight," Patrick told him finally in a fit of desperation, already running five minutes behind schedule. "And you can ask her all these questions yourself."

That seemed to satisfy the boy, and at last Patrick was able to race out of the flat. One of the perks of living above the surgery was that he did not have to worry about a morning commute, but still somehow he never managed to make it downstairs on time. He shuddered to think how tardy he might be if he lived elsewhere in Poplar.

The sun was shining brightly, but Patrick paid it no mind. Shelagh was supposed to meet him in the surgery before office hours began, and he was desperate to see her. To see her shy smile, to see the way the light glinted off her honey-gold hair, to hold her hand, to touch her, to know for a fact that everything before this morning was _real,_ no a dream conjured by a lovesick heart It was Shelagh he needed now; the rest could wait.

He had no sooner descended the stairs and made for the front door of the surgery than he saw her, his beautiful love, standing small and still on the pavement, waiting for him. She wore a pale pink dress that did not seem to suit her at all; oh, it fit her beautifully, emphasized the neat tuck of her waist, the skirt swirling prettily from her hips, but the color was so distinctly feminine, so obviously demanding of attention in a way that seemed most incongruous, given Shelagh's own more humble nature. The dress was made for summer, the sleeves stopping just above her elbows and showing off the pale soft skin of her forearms. Its neckline was by no means inappropriate, but Patrick had fallen in love with her without ever seeing her collarbones, and the expanse of skin revealed above that pale pink dress was so lovely and so unexpected it almost knocked the wind from him. On her feet she wore a pair of simple nude pumps, and her hair had been caught at the nape of her neck with a small brown clip, and she looked _...beautiful,_ and young, and far too wonderful to be wasting her time on the likes of him. _I'm a lucky sod,_ he thought.

"Shelagh," Patrick breathed as he approached, confused and delighted. He had given little thought to the matter of her clothes; he would not have minded in the least if she had appeared wearing the same brown suit she'd worn the day before. It was not her clothes that he had fallen in love with, and she had no need of fine garments to win his heart, for he had delivered it into her hands long ago, and had no intention of taking it back. It was _Shelagh_ he loved, her blue eyes and her clever wit, her fierce intelligence, her tender heart, Shelagh who was practical and kind and had saved him from himself. Why then, he wondered, had she felt the need to do this thing? Did she think he expected it of her? Somehow he did not think the dress was her own; she had joined the order just after the war, and the cut of this dress was far too modern, far too fashionable, for her to have kept it all this while. But likewise she had not had time to go out and purchase anything not new, not when he'd delivered her to Nonnatus House well after dark the night before, and it was still too early for the shops to have opened. There was a kind of magic in it, he thought, in the way she had found the means to surprise him, in the beauty of her tentative smile in the summer sunlight.

"Good morning, Patrick," she answered. She'd caught her fingertips in the full skirt of her pink dress, and was worrying the fabric between them, looking somehow, adorably uncertain, as if she did not quite know what to do with herself, dressed that way.

"This is unexpected," he told her as he came to a stop just in front of her. He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her into his arms, to press his nose against her hair and hold her tight, but they were standing together on the pavement, and all around them Poplar was alive with the noise of their neighbors rushing too and fro, and it was too great a risk to take to indulge himself just now, given that she had asked him to help her protect both their reputations. And he was not certain, not really, if she would come to him if he asked, if she was ready to submit to such easy affections or if the courage that had propelled her into his arms the day before had deserted her entirely, and this moment was too precious, he thought, for him to shatter it with his own eagerness.

"You did say to meet you after breakfast," she answered then, her brow furrowing as if in worry, as if she thought perhaps she'd misunderstood him, or he'd forgotten their plans already. _Oh,_ how he loved the sound of her voice; never before had a Scottish lilt sounded as beautiful as it did falling from her lips. Every word she spoke was its own kind of music, and he listened with rapt attention, in awe and in love.

"No, I meant the dress," he said, smiling, gesturing vaguely towards her lovely ensemble.

Shelagh blushed and cast her eyes down to her toes, and to his dismay Patrick saw that her smile had fled.

"It's Trixie's dress," she told him softly, sounding somehow disappointed now. "She thought perhaps I ought to have something nice to wear, if I'm to be your receptionist. I told her there was no need but she was so excited, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings."

"Oh, Shelagh," Patrick sighed, cursing himself for having given her cause to doubt how much he appreciated her efforts. It must have taken a great deal of courage for her to dress in such an unfamiliar way, when she was still so new to the world beyond the doors of the convent. Had she been full of hope, hope that he would be pleased with her, that she would make an impact on him, and had he dashed all those hopes already? In truth he had been so enthralled by the beauty of her that he had quite forgotten the surgery, or the keys that dangled from his fingertips, and only managed to stand still and stunned and basking in the radiance of her. Now he felt she ought to know that, that it would fall to him to restore her fragile hopes. Though he had only moments before resolved himself to abstain from any sort of intimacy in public he felt now that his misstep ought to be righted at once, and he did not want to leave her in doubt or distress a single second longer. And so, though perhaps it might have been a very foolish thing to do, he reached out and caught hold of her hand. Her eyes flashed up to his face at once, and the moment that brilliant blue gaze settled upon him he smiled.

"The dress is beautiful," he told her. " _You_ are beautiful."

And then he lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed her palm once, gently, just as he had done in the parish kitchen what seemed like a lifetime ago. He made that choice deliberately, wanting to remind her just how very much he loved her, how very much he wanted her, and as he looked into her eyes he saw that she understood every word he had not said, wrapped up in that one tender kiss.

"You don't need dresses and jewels to make you lovely," he continued in a low voice. "But it certainly doesn't hurt."

"Oh, Patrick," she laughed as the smile returned to her face, and he rejoiced to see it.

For a moment they stood together, her hand in his, lost in each other's eyes, relief and love and joy winding in and around and through them until everything else in all the world was forgotten, save the pair of them. But only for a moment, for in the next breath the chorus of calling voices and slamming doors that was early morning in Poplar roared back into life, and the spell was broken.

"Come on, then," he said, still holding her hand. "Let's get you inside."

They walked into the surgery together, hand-in-hand, Patrick grinning like a fool. As far as he was concerned he had the prettiest girl in Poplar on his arm, and he could not have been happier. There were others who were younger, more adept with makeup and curlers, bolder perhaps - though he knew from experience that she could be bolder than all of them put together, brave as a soldier when the need arose - but none of them held a candle to her, his Shelagh, not to him.

"What is it you want me to do?" she asked him as they stood together in the foyer of the surgery. They had perhaps half an hour before the first patient of the day was set to arrive, and ordinarily Patrick would have gone to check in at the maternity home on the west wing of the building before starting the kettle and bracing himself for what was to come. Perhaps Shelagh could start the kettle, as he went on his way, could spend a few moments familiarizing herself with his diary and his records before the work really began, or perhaps she could join him as he wandered through the maternity home - though perhaps not, given that this was her first day in Poplar without her habit, and the ladies did so love to gossip. That's what she was asking him, asking him for direction, some guidance in her newfound occupation, but the question had given him an idea, and he chose to act on it at once.

"I want you to stand very still," he told her, and then he moved, slowly, wrapped his arms around her waist, gathered his hands at the small of her back and pulled her in close to him. The softest sort of gasp escaped her, but she was still smiling, looking up at him with eyes bright and full of love, and so he did not hesitate, not for a moment, simply bowed his head, and brushed his lips against hers, once, softly.

"Good morning, Shelagh," he said, finally greeting her the way he wished he'd been able to when he first saw her standing on the pavement.

"Good morning, Patrick," she answered, a bit breathlessly. And then, to his surprise and his delight, she lifted herself up onto her toes, and kissed him once more.

"Now then," she said, blushing as she settled back on her feet. "Where shall we start?"


	5. Chapter 5

_10 July 1958_

The pink dress might have been a mistake, Shelagh thought to herself as she settled behind the receptionist's desk in the surgery's small waiting room. It was a beautiful dress, and perfectly acceptable, perfectly lovely for someone like Trixie, young and vibrant and utterly unconcerned what people thought of her. The dress fit Shelagh, mostly, though it was a bit longer on her than it was when Trixie wore it - which was all for the good, Shelagh thought - but it was much more _snug_ than the habit she'd grown accustomed to over the last decade, and the thought of going out in public dressed this way was daunting. The dress hid absolutely nothing; oh the neckline was perfectly demure and the hemline was perfectly appropriate for a doctor's receptionist, but Shelagh still felt very distinctly _on display._ When Patrick was looking at her, smiling that dear smile, hardly blinking as if he feared she would vanish if he closed his eyes for even a second, she didn't think that being on display was such a bad thing; she wanted _him_ to look at her, and to like what he saw when he did. But she feared she might change her tune when the patients started arriving. What would _they_ think when they saw her, saw that she had hips and breasts and honey-gold hair, that she was very clearly no longer a nun? Would they be full of questions, and would any of them be bold enough to ask, or would they sit back and stew in all sorts of unpleasant thoughts, drawing all sorts of - not entirely unfounded - conclusions about the morality of the decision she'd made?

 _They can say what they like,_ she told herself for perhaps the tenth time that day. _I love Patrick, and he loves me, and that's all that matters._

She wished it was as easy to believe as it was to say. When they were alone, when he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her gently, Shelagh felt as if she could face any trial, as if there were no obstacle too great for her to overcome it with Patrick by her side. When she was alone with him her heart felt light, and wild, and _free,_ and there was no price she would not pay, just to be with him.

Only he wasn't with her now; he was doing his rounds at the maternity home, and had given her a few minutes' peace in which she could familiarize herself with his diary. And so she sat, crossing her legs at the ankles and trying to ignore the way Cynthia's shoes pinched her toes, and opened the great black book that ostensibly dictated every moment of Patrick's professional life.

The first thing she noticed, upon opening that diary, was that he seemed to take a rather lackadaisical approach to penmanship. The letters he'd written to her had been legible enough, though it had been clear to her that his hand had been shaking while he poured his heart out to her. The diary was something else entirely; notes were scribbled here and there, some of them all but unintelligible. She squinted at the book, grinning; sloppy record keeping shouldn't have been endearing, but just now ever new discovery she made concerning Patrick and his habits only served to make her love him more. He did not have the time, during the course of his working day, to slow down and take clean notes; he moved quickly, always, trying to help as many people as he could, less worried with protocol than he was with offering aid. Often Patrick had a somewhat harried air about him, perpetually running behind schedule, his jacket often wrinkled, his hat sitting at a haphazard angle. He was a dear man who gave all of himself to others, and Shelagh rather liked the idea of becoming his partner, helping to smooth out the wrinkles so that he could devote himself to his work, and worry less. She wanted to ease his worry, wanted to smooth the furrow between his eyebrows with her thumb, wanted to help his practice to thrive, wanted him to be able to rest with her, because of her. He deserved that, she thought, a chance to rest.

The first patient of the day was Mr. Murrows, suffering from arthritis, scheduled to meet with Doctor Turner at 9:00 a.m. Shelagh gave quiet thanks for that, for she had not ever met Mr. Murrows, and did not think he would have any cause to recognize her. Perhaps, she thought, the quiet bubble of happiness she and Patrick had drawn around themselves could last just a little while longer. The surgery was quiet, there was a hot cup of tea close to hand, Patrick would be coming back from the maternity home any minute now, and all was well, she thought.

The serenity of the moment was not meant to last, however, for as Shelagh sat carefully copying the day's appointments in a neater hand the door of the surgery burst open, and Fred came rushing in, his little grandson in his arms.

"Oh, excuse me, Miss," he said, hardly even bothering to look at her as she rose to her feet; he was much too consumed with little Anthony, who was wiggling about, eager to put his feet on the ground. "I know the surgery's not open yet, but I was…"

Fred seemed to lose his voice, then, for at last he looked up, looked at her properly, and his mouth fell open in shock.

"Bloody hell," he said, and then promptly blushed like a schoolgirl. "Sorry, Sister, I mean to say, well, that's not right, is it? You're not a Sister any more. I heard you were coming back but I didn't, well, that is, I didn't think, I mean-"

"Catch your breath, Fred!" she told him, smiling despite the awkwardness of the situation. "It's only me."

"It is you, isn't it?" he said, "only it isn't you, if you catch my meaning."

"I'm the same person I've always been," she said earnestly. "I just go by a different name now, that's all."

"Begging your pardon, Sister, but that is only the tip of the iceberg."

He was staring at her like he'd never seen anything so strange in all his life, which Shelagh supposed he hadn't. It wasn't exactly common, for nuns to leave the Order and return to their old haunts. To rescind one's vows, to step away from the convent, was a shameful thing, in most people's eyes, and she supposed that most women would have more sense than she, would not thrust themselves into a sea of gossip and innuendo and judgment. And yet Shelagh had done this thing, willingly, done it because she loved Patrick, and she loved Poplar, and she loved her patients, and she believed, truly, that they were meant for one another, Shelagh and her love. She had done it all because she believed in them, because she believed their hope for the future was worth any minor discomfort now.

And Fred meant well, she knew he did. He was just shocked; Trixie had told Shelagh that news of her engagement had not been made public, that only the members of the tight-knit Nonnatun community knew that she was returning, and even they did not know why. Surely none of them would suspect a thing, would never have imagined that _their_ Doctor and _their_ Sister Bernadette could have fallen in love without anyone noticing, could have meant so much to one another that she would leave the Order for his sake. And Fred was right, too, that her name was not the only thing that had changed; her appearance, her position, her very profession had changed. Was she unrecognizable to them, now? Would all of these friendships she had developed over the last decade, the relationships that had sustained her and supported her and nurtured her, be rendered obsolete? Would she have to start over fresh with each of them now?

 _If I must,_ she thought, _then I will. Starting here._

"You can call me _Shelagh,_ Fred," she told him, leaving the desk so that she could come stand beside him. "Or Miss Mannion, if you're feeling formal. Now, I'm sure you didn't stop by just to see me."

"No," Fred agreed, though he still looked somewhat flabbergasted, as if he could hardly believe she was standing in front of him. "It's little Anthony. I'm supposed to take him to see his mum at the hospital this afternoon but he's got this rash on his back, and I wanted the doc to take a look at him."

"Doctor's in the maternity home just now, Fred, but if you'll pop through to his office I'll see that he comes to see you straight away."

"Thank you, Shelagh." He laughed. "That's going to take some getting used to. Fancy that, eh? I never thought to wonder what your proper name is. Now I can't stop thinking about Sister Evangelina. Doesn't seem right, calling her by another name."

 _Her name was Enid once, and never will be again, I'd wager._ Shelagh thought.

"Say, what are you doing here, anyway?" Fred asked. He'd only taken one step towards the Doctor's office, and had already managed to get himself distracted, watching her curiously while little Anthony still fought valiantly to escape for more interesting pursuits.

"I'm going to be Doctor's receptionist now, Fred," Shelagh told him. She chose her words carefully; there was no ring upon her finger, and she and Patrick had not yet discussed it amongst themselves, how they wanted to reveal the status of their relationship. It didn't seem right, somehow, to just go and tell Fred; surely she ought to talk to the other Sisters first, or to the nurses. Surely Patrick ought to have been with her, when she finally spoke the truth aloud.

"Oh, but don't you want to be a midwife, Sis - Shelagh? I'm sure there's still room for you at Nonnatus. And I know everyone will miss you if you're not there."

"What's all this?"

Patrick's gentle voice was always welcome, but in that moment Shelagh felt more relieved to hear it than she ever had done before.

"Fred's come about Anthony," Shelagh told him as he strode over to join them. "It seems he's got a little rash."

"Well, let's go and have a look at it then, shall we?"

Patrick clapped Fred on the back with one hand and gestured toward his office with the other. The arrival of the Doctor seemed to have caused Fred to forget his question entirely, for which Shelagh was very grateful. It would be for the best, she thought, to put such questions and answers off for another time. This day was challenging enough as it was, and she did not want to add any more worries to the pile she'd collected already.

"Oh, and Shelagh," Patrick added, turning back towards her just as he and Fred reached the threshold of his office, "could you-"

"I'll bring your tea through, Doctor," she answered before he could finish asking his question. Patrick's face split into a gentle smile, his eyes so very warm, focused only on her, and all her troubles seemed to melt away, if only for a moment.

"Thank you," he said, and then and Fred were stepping through the doorway.

* * *

"You sly old dog," Fred said the moment the door closed behind them. Patrick turned to look at him sharply, utterly at a loss as to what he meant, what could have possibly inspired him to say such a thing. But then he took note of the smug expression on Fred's face, the knowing look in his eyes, and Patrick's shoulders slumped as he was forced to admit defeat before the battle had even begun.

"Yes, all right," he said, gesturing for Fred to have a seat. "Just between us, Shelagh and I...well. We're going to be married."

" _Married_ ," Fred repeated, looking shocked and delighted in almost equal measure. "Married! To a nun! Doc, I never would have guessed, never in a million years."

"Yes, well," Patrick muttered, staring at his toes. "We didn't exactly advertise it. But please, Fred, please keep this just between us, just for now. Things are going to be difficult enough as it is."

"Mum's the word," Fred said, touching his finger to his nose. "No one will hear about it from me."

"Thank you," Patrick told him earnestly. "Now then, let's have a look at this little chap, eh?"


End file.
